


Trust

by letsdothepanic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Bottoming from the Top, Breathplay, Brief Mention of Violence, Choking, Come Eating, During Canon, Grimmauld Place, M/M, Memories from the First War With Voldemort, No actual violence happens though, Porn with Feelings, Remus Lupin POV, Smut, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 00:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18418973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsdothepanic/pseuds/letsdothepanic
Summary: Remus knew there was something wrong the last time they slept together, 14 years ago. Now that he and Sirius have found their way back to each other, they have to deal with what happened to be truly able to move on.Written for Remus Lupin Fest 2019.





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my anonymous prompter for the inspiration (hope you don't mind I've deviated from it a bit), to my fantastic beta, M (who will be linked after reveals), and to the Mods for organising this Fest!

“I’m sorry,” Sirius kisses his eyes and says, sorrow laced into deep baritone as bony fingers clutch onto Remus’ forearms.

Sirius has a lot to apologise for.

But so does he, Remus reckons as he settles on the bed, takes Sirius’ hands in his, rubs his thumbs over the bumps of his knuckles. They have already argued over how reckless and _bloody stupid_ Sirius was, and over how Remus hadn’t fought for him. They have yelled at each other in a cave near Hogsmeade, at Remus’ dead parents’ cottage where they were supposed to be _lying low_ and then in front of Sirius’ dead mother’s shrieking portrait, more recently.

They have yelled their voices raw, pawed at each other as humans and beasts both, and now they’ve finally found their way into Remus’ bedroom at Grimmauld Place– a sentence that rings unfamiliar in his ears when he tries to make sense of it, tries to tether his mind to reality and to make sure he knows what Sirius’ half-words mean.

Remus’ eyes prickle and sting behind their lids where he’s being kissed. It has nothing to do with how the stubble on Sirius’ upper lip and chin scratches at him, or how Sirius’ hair smells faintly of _bird_ and dusty rooms and even a bit of something like Dark magic residue and Doxycide.

Sirius’ hands are impossibly gentle on his shoulders, his lips are impossibly gentle on his cheek and still there’s a wave of nausea creeping up the inside of Remus’ nose. It makes no sense, he tells himself; there’s no danger, nothing to fear, and yet his heart beats too fast and his pulse quickens and he thinks of pushing Sirius away.

Remus could do it very easily. Sirius is still too thin; it would be an overstatement to say he could snap him in half, but maybe Remus could snap his _arm_ in two– crush Sirius’ delicate wrist bones between his fingers, banish him with a curse and watch him crumble into a heap across the room.

He doesn’t want to do that, though. This is not what he does to people, not _anymore,_ not now that he’s back to living among wizards who consider him human and not just part-wolf. And, most importantly, he doesn’t _want_ to hurt Sirius– he would _never._

Sirius had to take enough hurt from the rest of the world, already.

So Remus backs away gently– _impossibly_ gently, a couple of stray tears disappearing into his beard.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius rasps again, and Remus knows what he’s apologising for.

The last time they did this, things were different.

There was something missing that night in 1981–  while October 30th turned into 31st and magic seemed to crackle around them, ready to snap like static electricity. Remus feels Sirius’ hands tremble as he silently asks for permission to remove his jumper. The contrast between both nights is stark clear.

Remus inhales.

He knows what Sirius is apologising for when he opens his eyes and looks into black pupils surrounded by clear grey.

Remus could’ve hexed him the last time, could have broken his wrist back then, though it would’ve taken more of an effort. He could’ve yelled– could’ve punched him, or sunk his nails into his flesh; thrown Sirius out of the bed they’d been sharing since leaving Hogwarts– so many years ago that it feels like it was someone else’s life.

But Remus had liked it, back in the day; lying down and feeling Sirius put his weight into the hold he’d have on his throat– pain and worries melting away as his airways were closed and black spots danced around his vision, head finally light. He had liked it the times they’d done it before because he trusted Sirius would stop if he’d asked him to.

_Trust._

That’s what Sirius is apologising for.

Remus did not want him to stop, back then. Even if Sirius thought he was a traitor, he did not want Sirius to back away from him or to leave him alone. Remus _wanted_ him to flex his hands around his throat until he couldn’t breathe anymore, muscles tensing and releasing, the weight of doubt leaving him for a few glorious seconds– followed by the crash of a wave of bliss when the air came back to his starving lungs and Sirius’ newly freed hand reached his aching hard-on.

It was _their_ bed, back then, not Remus’, he thinks. They were Sirius’ fingers– strong from wand handling and spell practise, his fingers back then– closing around Remus’ prick and stroking him quickly, his shiny hair under Remus’ nose when he bent down to kiss Remus’ throat roughly, and his eyes that would avoid Remus’ like one would avoid a Basilisk’s.

Remus remembers the force of their magic shifting around them back then, and Sirius’ kisses on his skin feeling like they were laced with something wrong and poisonous, like the man above him was an impostor– someone to fight, not to touch tenderly.

He wouldn’t let himself think of Sirius as a traitor back then. That had lead to many sleepless nights, too much questioning and wanting to take the blame for everything– but there was no way he could have known. Remus would rather get detached from the situation: dive deep into dangerous missions, take beatings from other werewolves, extract intel from Death Eaters by all means necessary. Remus was a fighter, a soldier. Strong, hardened. He knew what to do.

So Remus pulled away that night, far enough that his back was flush against the harsh headboard and his chest heaved with fear, not pleasure. Fight or flight.

And Sirius’ eyes were the same grey as ever when he opened them, the arch of his eyebrows the same as ever when he raised them in question and his canines as sharp as ever when he bit sideways on his own lower lip and stared, taking in Remus’ expression like something out of a dream.

Or out of a nightmare, Remus thought on that day. Someone had stolen his partner from him, he thought, and the fear spread through his veins like a disease.

“Sirius,” he called that day as he calls now. Except this time he’s closing his eyes and fighting the memories, breath still shallow. And then Sirius’ hand is cupping his jaw; Sirius’ bony hand is there and Remus lets himself be kissed.

“I love you,” Sirius tells him in the present, and Remus _believes_ him.

He believes him because they both know who the spy was now, they know where their loyalties lie and that the world out there is cold and harsh and that in that bedroom– with the posh wooden furniture and the ancient curtains and the sheets that feel worn by too many cleaning charms– there’s only them.

They’ve already let one war tear them apart, and this time they will be fighting together.

So Remus doesn’t back away now, and accepts Sirius’ apology with his heart as open as a broken and mended one like his own can accept whatever it is. Remus pushes a strand of hair away from Sirius’ forehead –  too short to be tucked behind his ear – and kisses him. He crushes their lips together and moans and tells him with his tongue that he loves him too. That he forgives him; that he _trusts_ him.

“Fuck me,” Remus whispers, clearly enough for Sirius to know he means it.

He shifts them over, too, in case that was not enough of a message, until Sirius’ head is resting on the pillows near the headboard and Remus has a thigh on each side of his legs. He pulls Sirius by the collar of the ratty t-shirt he’s wearing, pulls him close and kisses him again, sensually pressing his bum down, against Sirius’ lap.

Sirius’ body takes a moment to catch up on what’s happening, and for a second Remus considers stopping, but it’s all gone with an expert roll of his hips. He kisses Sirius and kisses him, rutting against him and groaning deeply as Sirius’ cock fattens up– blood rushing; the mere notion of it enough to make Remus’ stomach coil in pleasure. He’s glad Sirius has taken to walking about in his underpants, thankful that the only thing between them is a double layer of soft, worn cotton that only adds to the friction he already feels lost in.

It’s only when Remus moves to straighten his back, roll his shoulders into place and breathe in freely that Sirius opens his mouth to speak again, it seems.

Except he remains silent– only an airy moan leaving his throat. Looking up at Remus with hazy eyes, Sirius opens his mouth as an offering.

And Remus takes it; feeds him two fingers to suck on, rolls his hips again and guides Sirius’ hands to his thighs. Sirius’ hands are bony and thin, but they look like they belong there, grab on like they belong there. Remus pushes his fingers deeper inside Sirius’ mouth, feels him lap at them, presses Sirius’ tongue down and shudders in delight when Sirius drools and gags on it.

And when he feels like Sirius’s had enough, Remus scoots down ever so slightly, leans forward and reaches inside his own pants, teases his own, sensitive hole.

“Remus,” Sirius calls, bucking up, making their hard pricks touch through the fabric. Remus’ pants have a dark, wet stain on their front.

“Yeah?” Remus asks, spreading Sirius’ spit over his arsehole, throwing his head back and closing his eyes to make his pleasure known.

“There you go,” Sirius says with a shy, breathy laugh and vanishes their underwear with a flick of his wand that was lost somewhere in the sheets– and his laughter is _golden._ Remus is drunk on it already, and he, too, laughs when his cock twitches and cries a dollop of precome onto Sirius’ t-shirt.

And then Sirius is swatting his hand away, rising from his place on the mattress and sinking two slick fingers inside him, thanks to another sneaky spell.

Remus is thankful for magic, feels it around him gladly.

Sirius pushes into him at Remus’ command, and they kiss again. There’s some resistance at first, but Remus won’t stop moving, won’t give up until Sirius is fully sheathed inside him.

They move together well, Remus thinks, fucking himself on Sirius’ prick. The sound of their skin slapping together is sinful, along with the wet noise of the lubricant, of their moans mixing together. The smell of their sex turns him on impossibly; Remus’ hands search for Sirius, he runs blunt fingernails down Sirius’ chest and ruins his top.

Last time they did this, things were different– his brain tries to remind him, but Remus does his best to forget about it. Replace the memories. Clench around Sirius, suck him in, work his cock until there’s sweat prickling on Remus’ back and his legs feel weak. Kiss him again, feel Sirius’ tongue on his, pant against his lips. Guide one of Sirius’ hands to rest around his neck, the other to wank him off. And when Remus closes his eyes, inhales deeply and nods the okay for Sirius to _press_ , he’s never been surer of it.

Remus’ vision gets pleasantly fuzzy, stars blooming behind his eyelids when his lungs cry for air. He feels this legs spasm and tremble, muscles screaming– _fight._ Come _back_.

When Sirius lets go, it’s bliss.

Oxygen rushes in and Remus chokes on his own voice, high on his orgasm and on _Sirius–_  Sirius’ arms around him, Sirius pulsing inside him, emptying himself. Sirius’ bare chest, his soiled t-shirt gone.

It takes him some time to come down; Remus barely registers what he’s doing as he gathers his spunk from Sirius’ stomach, making a mess. He takes his time to do it, to silently ask for Sirius to part his lips so he can feed it to him. Sirius’ eyebrow twitches at the taste, but he doesn’t complain. He licks Remus’ fingers clean; kisses his knuckles, his wrist.

“I love you,” it’s Remus’ turn to say.

When Sirius cleans them up with a spell, his body welcomes Sirius’ magic.

“Love you, too.”

With a tap of his wand, Sirius heals the bruises on Remus’ neck.


End file.
